Notes In Wartimes

The same old letters disguised by different names..

Notes in Wartime

The sound of a scratch
Perhaps, is too brash

For silence.

Not minding the violence,

Caps the clash

That is timeless.
The pen it bleeds
Forward to relate

The seeds of fate.

A swish of a turn

A refuge to burn

No more treaty learned.

A chocked throat leads

A stopped heart bleeds

No more sounds

Of peace counting beads.

Author's Note

the old pen foretold what the block print is digitally presenting